On the following morning the cabin
on the mountain side was closed at an early hour,
and its late occupant, accompanied by Peter and the
collie, descended the trail to the small station near
the base of the mountain, where he took leave of the
old hermit. On his arrival at Ophir he ordered
a carriage and drove directly to The Pines, for he
was impatient to see John Britton at as early a date
as possible, and was fearful lest the latter, with
his migratory habits, might escape him.

It was near noon when, having dismissed
the carriage, he rang for admission. He recalled
the house and grounds as they appeared to him on his
first arrival, but he found it hard to realize that
he was looking upon the scenes among which most of
that strange drama of the last two years had been
enacted. Mr. Underwood himself came to the door.

“Why, Darrell, my boy, how do
you do?” he exclaimed, shaking hands heartily;
“thought you’d take us by surprise, eh?
Got a little tired of living alone, I guess, and thought
you’d come back to your friends. Well,
it’s mighty good to see you; come in; we’ll
have lunch in about an hour.”

To Mr. Underwood’s surprise
the young man did not immediately accept the invitation
to come in, but seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“I am very glad to meet you,
Mr. Underwood,” he responded, pleasantly, but
with a shade of reserve in his manner; “I remember
you very well, indeed, and probably yours is about
the only face I will be able to recall.”

For a moment Mr. Underwood seemed
staggered, unable to comprehend the meaning of the
other’s words.

The young man continued: “I
understand Mr. Britton is stopping with you; is he
still here, or has he left?”

“He is here,” Mr. Underwood
replied; “but, good God! Darrell, what does
this mean?”

Before the other could reply Mr. Britton,
who was in an adjoining room and had overheard the
colloquy, came quickly forward. He gave a swift,
penetrating glance into the young man’s face,
then, turning to Mr. Underwood, said,

“It means, David, that our young
friend has come to his own again. He is no longer
of our world or of us.”

Then turning to the young man, he
said, “I am John Britton; do you wish to see
me?”

The other looked earnestly into the
face of the speaker, and his own features betrayed
emotion as he replied,

“I do; I must see you on especially important
business.”

“David, you will let us have
the use of your private room for a while?” Mr.
Britton inquired.

Mr. Underwood nodded silently, his
eyes fixed with a troubled expression upon the young
man’s face. The latter, observing his distress,
said,

“Don’t think, Mr. Underwood,
that I am insensible to all your kindness to me since
my coming here two years ago. I shall see you
later and show you that I am not lacking in appreciation,
though I can never express my gratitude to you; but
before I can do that before I can even tell
you who I am it is necessary that I see
Mr. Britton.”

“Tut! tut!” said Mr. Underwood,
gruffly; “don’t talk to me of gratitude;
I don’t want any; but, my God! boy, I had come
to look on you almost as my own son!” And, turning
abruptly, he left the room before either of the others
could speak.

“He is a man of very strong
feelings,” said Mr. Britton, leading the way
to Mr. Underwood’s room; “and, to tell
the truth, this is a pretty hard blow to each of us,
although we should have prepared ourselves for it.
Be seated, my son.”

Seating himself beside the young man
and again looking into his face, he said,

“I see that the day has dawned;
when did the light come, and how?”

Briefly the other related his awakening
on the rocks and the events which followed down to
his finding and reading the journal which recorded
so faithfully the history of the missing years, Mr.
Britton listening with intense interest. At last
the young man said,

“Of all the records of that
journal, there was nothing that interested me so greatly
or moved me so deeply as did the story of your own
life. That is what brought me here to-day.
I have come to tell you my story, the story
of John Darrell, as you have known him, and
possibly you may find it in some ways a counterpart
to your own.”

“I was drawn towards you in
some inexplicable way from our first meeting,”
Mr. Britton replied, slowly; “you became as dear
to me as a son, so that I gave you in confidence the
story that no other human being has ever heard.
It is needless to say that I appreciate this mark
of your confidence in return, and that you can rest
assured of my deepest interest in anything concerning
yourself.”

The younger man drew his chair nearer
his companion. “As you already know,”
he said, “I am a mine expert. I came out
here on a commission for a large eastern syndicate,
and as there was likely to be lively competition and
I wished to remain incognito, I took the name of John
Darrell, which in reality was a part of my own name.
My home is in New York State. I was a country-bred
boy, brought up on one of those great farms which
abound a little north of the central part of the State;
but, though country-bred, I was not a rustic, for
my mother, who was my principal instructor until I
was about fourteen years of age, was a woman of refinement
and culture. My mother and I lived at her father’s
house a beautiful country home; but even
while a mere child I became aware that there was some
kind of an unpleasant secret in our family. My
grandfather would never allow my father’s name
mentioned, and he had little love for me as his child;
but my earliest recollections of my mother are of
her kneeling with me night after night in prayer, teaching
me to love and revere the father I had never known,
who, she told me, was ‘gone away,’ and
to pray always for his welfare and for his return.
At fourteen I was sent away to a preparatory school,
and afterwards to college. Then, as I developed
a taste for mineralogy and metallurgy, I took a course
in the Columbian School of Mines. By this time
I had learned that while it was generally supposed
my mother was a widow, there were those, my grandfather
among them, who believed that my father had deserted
her. My first intimation of this was an insinuation
to that effect by my grandfather himself, soon after
my graduation. I was an athlete and already had
a good position at a fair salary, and so great was
my love and reverence for my father’s name that
I told the old gentleman that nothing but his white
hairs saved him from a sound thrashing, and that at
the first repetition of any such insinuation I would
take my mother from under his roof and provide a home
for her myself. That sufficed to silence him
effectually, for he idolized her. After this
little episode I went to my mother and begged her to
tell me the secret regarding my father.”

The young man paused for a moment,
his dark eyes gazing earnestly into the clear gray
eyes watching him intently; then, without shifting
his gaze, he continued, in low tones:

“She told me that about a year
before my birth she and my father were married against
her father’s will, his only objection to the
marriage being that my father was poor. She told
me of their happy married life that followed, but
that my father was ambitious, and the consciousness
of poverty and the fact that he could not provide for
her as he wished galled him. She told me how,
when there was revealed to them the promise of a new
love and life within their little home, he redoubled
his efforts to do for her and hers, and then, dissatisfied
with what he could accomplish there, went out into
the new West to build a home for his little family.
She told of the brave, loving letters that came so
faithfully and the generous remittances to provide
for every possible need in the coming emergency.
Then Fortune beckoned him still farther west, and
he obeyed, daring the dangers of that strange, wild
country for the love he bore his wife and his unborn
child. From that country only one letter ever
was received from him. Just at that time I was
born, and my life came near costing hers who bore me.
For weeks she lay between life and death, so low that
the report of her death reached her parents, bringing
them broken-hearted and, as they supposed, too late
to her humble home. They found her yet living
and threw their love and their wealth into the battle
against death. In all this time no news came
from the great West. As soon as she could be moved
my mother and her child were taken to her father’s
home. Her father forgave her, but he had no forgiveness
for her husband and no love for his child. He
tried to make my mother believe her husband had deserted
her, but she was loyal in her trust in him as in her
love for him. She named her child for his father,
‘John,’ but as her father would not allow
the name repeated in his hearing she gave him the
additional name of ‘Darrell,’ by which
he was universally known; but in those sacred hours
when she told me of my father and taught me to pray
for him, she always called me by his name, ‘John
Britton.’”

As he ceased speaking both men rose
simultaneously to their feet. The elder man placed
his hands upon the shoulders of the younger, and,
standing thus face to face, they looked into each other’s
eyes as though each were reading the other’s
inmost soul.

“What was your mother’s
name?” Mr. Britton asked, in low tones.

“Patience Patience Jewett,”
replied the other.

Mr. Britton bowed his head with deep
emotion, and father and son were clasped in each other’s
arms.

When they had grown calm enough for
speech Mr. Britton’s first words were of his
wife.

“What of your mother, my son, was
she living when you came west?”

“Yes, but her health was delicate,
and I am fearful of the effects of my long absence;
it must have been a terrible strain upon her.
As soon as I reached the city this morning I telegraphed
an old schoolmate for tidings of her, and I am expecting
an answer any moment.”

They talked of the strange chain of
circumstances which had brought them together and
of the mysterious bond by which they had been so closely
united while as yet unconscious of their relationship.
The summons to lunch recalled them to the present.
As they rose to leave the room Mr. Britton threw his
arm affectionately about Darrell’s shoulders,
exclaiming,

“My son! Mine! and I have
loved you as such from the first time I looked into
your eyes! If God will now only permit me to see
my beloved wife again, I can ask nothing more!”

And as Darrell gazed at the noble
form, towering slightly above his own, and looked
into the depths of those gray eyes, penetrating, fearless,
yet tender as a woman’s, he felt that however
sweet and sacred had been the friendship between them
in the past, it was as naught compared with the infinitely
sweeter and holier relationship of father and son.

They passed into the dining-room where
Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean awaited them, a look of
eager expectancy on both faces, the wistful expression
of Mrs. Dean as she watched for the first token of
recognition on Darrell’s part being almost pathetic.

Mr. Britton, who had entered slightly
in advance, paused half-way across the room, and,
placing his hand on Darrell’s shoulder, said,
in a voice which vibrated with emotion,

Then, grasping his old-time partner’s
hand, he added: “Jack, you old fraud!
You’ve always got the best of me on every bargain,
but I forgive you this time. I wanted the boy
myself, but you seem to have the best title, so there’s
no use to try to jump your claim.”

Lunch was just over as a messenger
was announced, and a moment later a telegram was handed
to Darrell. As he opened the missive his fingers
trembled and Mr. Britton’s face grew pale.
Darrell hastily read the contents, then met his father’s
anxious glance with a reassuring smile.

“She is living and in usual
health, though my friend says she is much more delicate
than when I left.”

“We must go to her at once,
my boy,” said Mr. Britton; “how soon can
you leave?”

“In a very few hours, father; when do you wish
to start?”

Mr. Britton consulted a time-table.
“The east-bound express leaves at ten-thirty
to-night; can we make that?”

“Sure!” Darrell responded,
with an enthusiasm new to his western friends; “you
can’t start too soon for me, and there isn’t
a train that travels fast enough to take me to that
little mother of mine, especially with the good news
I have for her.”

Half an hour later, as he was hastily
gathering together his possessions, he came suddenly
upon a picture, at sight of which he paused, then
stood spellbound, all else for the time forgotten.
It was a portrait of Kate Underwood, taken in the
gown she had worn on that night of her first reception.
It served as a connecting link between the past and
present. Gazing at it he was able to understand
how the young girl whom he faintly remembered had
grown into the strong, sweet character delineated
in the recorded story of his love. He was able
to recall some of the scenes portrayed there; he recalled
her as she stood that day on the “Divide,”
her head uncovered, her gleaming hair like a halo about
her face, her eyes shining with a light that was not
of earth.

He kissed the picture reverently.
“Sweet angel of my dream!” he murmured;
“come what may, you hold, and always will, a
place in my heart which no other can ever take from
you. I will lay your sweet face away, never again
to be lifted from its hiding-place until I can look
upon it as the face of my betrothed.”

His trunk was packed, his preparations
for departure nearly complete, when there came a gentle
tap at his door, and Mrs. Dean entered.

“I was afraid,” she said,
speaking with some hesitation, “that you might
think it strange if you did not see Katherine, and
I wanted to explain that she is away. She went
out of town, to be gone for a few days. She will
be very sorry when she returns to find that she has
missed seeing you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,”
said Darrell, slowly; “on some accounts I would
have been very glad to meet Kate; but on the whole
I think perhaps it is better as it is.”

“I don’t suppose you remember
her except as you saw her when you first came,”
Mrs. Dean added, wistfully; “I should like to
have you see her as she is now. I think she has
matured into a beautiful young woman.”

“Yes, I remember her, Mrs. Dean; she is beautiful.”

“Oh, do you? She will be
glad to hear that!” Mrs. Dean exclaimed, with
a happy smile.

Darrell came nearer and took her hands
within his own. “Will you give her a message
from me, just as I give it to you? She will understand.”

“Oh, yes; gladly.”

“Tell her,” said Darrell,
and his voice trembled slightly, “I remember
her. Tell her I will see her ‘at the time
appointed;’ and that I never forget!”

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